Start From Scratch
by sickoftakenpennames
Summary: The billionaire turned outcast has to start life anew; new identity, new circumstances, new him. All he can hope is that life lets him fly under the radar and make the transition as painlessly as possible. But fate tends to have different plans for us.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I do not own Danny Phantom or its characters; all are the exclusive property of Butch Hartman and Nickelodeon.**

* * *

He dashes into the handicapped stall of the gas station bathroom and drops his duffel bag onto the linoleum tile. He stares into the mirror, ignoring the phone numbers scribbled hastily onto the glass, observing his tired reflection. He recounts the events of the past days; the hitchhike back to Earth on the STS-132 in Cape Canaveral, the mad dash back home to his leveled mansion to recover lost belongings and necessities while the area remained heavily guarded by a division of the Guys in White, the quick stop at a random ATM to funnel out any savings before they had an opportunity to freeze his account, and the long, tedious flight out of the patrolled perimeter to land here, on the outskirts of suburban Denver; all while dejectedly glaring down his exhausted reflection.

He looks weary, weak, broken; a man tossed about by the media and left to rot in the eyes of the civilians that had once trusted him, and those who had watched from around the globe as he single-handedly made one of the worst mistakes in his entire life (one, but definitely not _the_ one; he's attributed that title to another grave error from his past).

And now, here he stands, forced to break away and begin a new life from the ground up, if he can. One of the wealthiest, most refined, idolized men in the world, now reduced to being on the run from the government, from his aquaintences, from _everyone,_ like some common criminal.

Taking a deep breath, he begins to rummage through the bag and pulls out a can of shaving cream and a disposable razor, along with a medium-sized single blade. He sets the three on the sink's edge and starts to run the water. Applying the shaving cream, he warily picks up the razor and hesitates before pressing it against his cheek and stroking down. Three minutes later, water splashes from the basin as he washes off the excess. He takes a few half-hearted glances at the mirror, returning his attention to the sink when he realizes he cannot yet bear to acknowledge the drastic change in his appearance. So it comes as no surprise that the next move will be even harder for him.

Shakily, he picks up the blade. His hand trembles as he brings it up closer, looking unsteadily at the mirror, as if he will garner a sceond opinion from his reflection.

He takes another deep breath and slowly brings his free hand up to grab his silver ponytail. A beat passes.

Hissing, he brings up the blade and slices through the red elastic band holding it all together, and, putting forced pressure on it, cuts through the entire ponytail, feeling its weight in his left hand, separated from the back of his head.

He brings it into his view, looking down at it as if it's some foreign object instead of just a bunch of fine, silvery hairs. He wraps it in what little left of the toilet paper he can find and tosses it into the trash, figuring one would have a hard time explaining the presence of a bare silver ponytail in the bin should they come across it.

Stuffing the grooming items back into his bag, he zips up and stands up at full height to face his reflection one last time. He begrudgingly admits to himself that the changes had to be made; the goatee and ponytail combo might have paired well with the 'man of wealth and taste' air, but would have seemed strange and creepy with his current appearance.

All in all, he thinks he can pull the disguise off.

He barely recognizes himself.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: I do not own Danny Phantom or any of its characters, all of which are the exclusive property of Butch Hartman and Nickelodeon.**

* * *

"Hello?" chirps the cheery voice on the other end of the line. He runs his free hand through his now loose hair and takes a deep breath (awful lot of those lately) before answering.

"Yes, I'm calling to inquire about an apartment on ... and ...; the sign on the front of the building said to call this number..."

"Oh, absolutely, sir!" exclaims the perky listings agent on the other end. "I can be there in an hour, if that's convenient for you."

He forces himself to grin, despite the fact that she cannot see him anyway, and grips the side of the payphone.

"That's fine."

She chirps again in delight before hanging up.

* * *

He turns the corner and finds the agent already standing in front of the building's doors. She seems to be an energetic, happy-go-lucky thirty-something, looking a bit out of contrast with the dreary environment around her. Nonetheless, she bears a wide grin at his arrival. He, however, seems a bit apprehensive.

"Are you the one that called earlier for the apartment?" she asks, sticking out her hand for a friendly shake.

He takes it and nods. She clutches her manila folder to her chest and looks at him with big, hopeful eyes, giddy at the thought of making a commission.

"Well, then we better not waste any time!"

She pushes the doors open and picks up a stride on her way to the staircase visible on the right side of the lobby. He follows, not as enthusiastically, but it takes only one step from him to equal three from her.

On the way up she reveals to him the steal that an apartment there costs; utilities functioning (barely, from what he can tell of the blinky lighting), and the great view the room has. Figuring she's not lamenting anything truly important to him, he slowly tunes her out, following like a robot.

She opens the door to the third floor and makes her way down the hallway. He trails behind her, watching her attempt to make small talk with the old woman sitting in a folding chair in her doorway on the left, TV dinner in lap and looking frumpy.

"Hello, Mrs. Stein," the agent remarks. "How are you doing today?"

"The weather's horrible," Mrs. Stein retorts nonsensically. "And my knee's acting up again. It'll get even worse."

"That's nice," the agent replies, smile still plastered onto her face. She continues walking, and he does the same, not saying a word as he passes the older woman by.

"Are you renting to this one?" Mrs. Stein barks, looking after the both of them. "Don't. I gotta bad feeling about him. No good."

He tenses and almost turns to look at her until the agent turns around and mouths the word 'senile' to him. He relaxes a little.

"Well, here it is," she says as she turns the key in the lock and enters an apartment about five doors down from the old woman. Stepping in with her, he stoops a little to avoid hitting his head on the door frame, realizing an instant later he's capable of clearing it without ducking.

She sighs and looks around like she's stepped into a little piece of paradise. All he sees is paint chipping in a corner of the tiny room, a bare bedpost without a mattress under the one window, a small excuse for a kitchen on his immediate right, and a door to his left that he assumes leads to the bathroom.

"It's not too shabby," she tries to persuade him (and possibly herself), stepping in front of a dead cockroach and not so subtly kicking it under the bedpost. "The, uh, bathroom's in decent condition."

He pushes the door to the bathroom open and is slightly surprised to see she's right; still, it's fairly bland and a small bit of limescale has built up on the soapdish. But nothing too serious.

"Um, there's... not really much else I can add at this point..." she mumbles unsurely, rubbing the back of her neck nervously.

"Well, I'm not looking for anything special," he reassures her. "This'll do just fine."

She perks up slightly and opens the folder she has been holding.

"Okay, then... well, I already have the month-to-month lease here," she starts, offering the pen that was also in the folder. "So all you have to do is sign and date it, unless you want to keep it overnight and go over..."

"No, I'll skim it right now," he interrupts politely.

He glances over the two pages in a period of two minutes and flips back to the front, taking the pen and signing, using the stove as a tabletop.

She picks it up when he's done and looks at the name written on the lease: _Vladimir Aleksandr._

"Russian?" she inquires, smirking.

"No, Canadian."

Her face drops for a second before she realizes he is being sarcastic. She chuckles, trailing off nervously and clearing her throat when his deadpan expression remains indifferent.

"So, um, the first month is $700 and security is also $700..." she informs him, watching him take out his wallet and slowly count out fourteen Benjamins, handing them to her without a word.

She looks at him strangely, wondering why he has so much cash on hand instead of a checkbook or something of the sort.

"Gotta be careful carrying too much around these days," he instantly fibs, a hint of a strained chuckle almost evident in his voice.

She nods unsurely, and decides not to put too much thought into it.

"Well, in any case, I need to know of any references you might have..."

She stops midsentence when she sees the look of uncertainty that crosses over his face.

"...but it's not _really_ necessary... I mean, you seem like an honest man," she adds rushedly. She also forces a smirk when she sees his expression lighten.

There is a moment of uncomfortable silence in which she grabs everything and stuffs it back into the folder, sliding past him and opening the door.

"Well, it was very nice meeting you," she says quickly. "I hope you enjoy the apartment!"

She lets herself out without so much as a 'goodbye.'

He doesn't pay it any mind, just shrugging the duffel bag off his shoulder and dropping it on the floor next to the bedpost, which he promptly sits on to rest, letting an ear-piercing creak sound through the room and possibly the ones next to it.

He sighs and looks around at the apartment, thinking how long he can manage in it and how he will survive off of the mere $200 dollars left in his wallet.

Burying his head in his hands, he stares at the floor in defeat.

_Home sweet home._


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: I do not own Danny Phantom or any of its characters, all of which are the exclusive property of Butch Hartman and Nickelodeon. I also do not own any brand names hereon mentioned.**

* * *

The days following are all but exhausting; after walking around town (with a new attire of a turtleneck, his dress shirt over said turtleneck, and a trenchcoat with the collar pulled up), often in circles, he manages to find a convenience store providing items he figure can tie him over until he finds some sort of job.

Still, one bag of Hamburger Helper satisfies his appetite for the first night, and he figures he'll have to stretch the remaining $175 for all its worth, saving about $50 for emergencies.

The next few days are dedicated to scouting for job opportunities; an open odd job anywhere is welcome. He peeks into window displays, restaurants, and even dry-cleaners, but much to his dismay, no one is hiring.

Day in, day out, and no sign of employment anywhere; the $125 slowly dwindles to $100, and a small sense of panic starts to stir in him.

Finally, four days later, he finds a glimmer of hope two blocks down the road... a 'Help Wanted' sign.

He looks up at the moniker plastered on top of the restaurant; _Samir's Indian Cuisine._

Doubtful for a moment, he swallows what left he has of his pride and steps in, setting off a chime throughout the dining room.

The place is small, a little run down. The only visible customers are two parties, one of them already standing up to pay the check and leave.

Glancing around, he cannot find any employees or hint of the head of the establishment. Suddenly a young man comes bursting out of a swinging door in the back, tray of food piled high in hand, presumably for the remaining party of four sitting at the table.

He seems very young, only about nineteen or twenty, and very fit with a dark complexion. After setting the food down on the table for the hungry customers, he directs his attention to the tall man standing silently near the doorway.

"You can sit anywhere you want," he barks, about to make his way back to the kitchen.

"Actually, I'm here to ask about a job," Vlad shouts back, catching the man's attention before he disappears behind the door. Turning around, the latter eyes him warily, possibly tying to assess some kind of threat.

Shrugging, the man beckons him to come with him to the kitchen, pushing the door and letting it swing rather vivaciously, seeming not to care too much if the stranger follows him at all.

Directing him to the back of the room, Vlad sees an older man preparing a dish that looks like Tandoori chicken, or something of the sort. The younger man picks up another plate and goes right back out the door as quickly as he came in, leaving the stranger to his own agenda.

Figuring he is the restaurant manager (or at least the one in some sense of charge here), he walks up to the man, who is fixated on impeccably fixing the dish for its future customer. He seems to be around his fifties, with a large belly and fuzzy mustache adorning his upper lip. He looks like he could be related to the other man that greeted Vlad at the door.

"Yes?" he asks, never taking his eyes off the chicken, reaching over for some spices.

Vlad shifts unsurely.

"I came in to ask about the job. There was a sign out front..."

"Ah, yes," the older man interrupts, putting the spices back down and placing the dish on the steel table behind him, turning back around to organize the utensils he had been using for the dish. "Good, good, it would seem that we need a bit of help around here."

He speaks with a thick accent, but it appears his English is flawless regardless.

Vlad thinks back to the other employee and speaks to the gentleman.

"Is there anyone else here besides the two of you?"

"No," the older man retorts. "It is just me and my nephew, Pranav. I am Samir."

Vlad figures as much.

"And you would be?" Samir asks back.

Startled, Vlad answers.

"Vladimir."

He sees the blank look on Samir's face and quickly follows up with, "Or just Vlad, if that's easier."

"Well, Mr. _Vladimir,_" Samir taunts, probably letting him know he will damn well call him whatever he wants as long as he is Vlad's employer, "You can start at eight o' clock tomorrow, if that is convenient for _you._"

"Uh, that's fine," Vlad responds, nodding.

"Good. Then have a nice evening."

Samir gestures to the door of the kitchen as a signal for him to leave. Vlad, mildly stunned that the conversation has taken place so quickly, hesitates before making his way out.

At the moment he is about to push the door open, he is beaten to it by someone who is bringing back a couple of empty glasses.

Pranav eyes him threateningly, keeping their eyes locked until he begrudgingly shoves past Vlad and towards his uncle.

Vlad looks back in confusion for a second before pushing the door back open and exiting.

* * *

The next day he enters the restaurant again and finds it completely empty (apparently not drawing much of a breakfast crowd).

Samir is standing at the counter, checking on the cash register. He walks up to him and doesn't even get in a word before Samir starts off with, "Pranav will show you to your station."

He looks to the kitchen doors and sees the nephew of the owner leaning against it casually, a sour expression on his face. A devilish smirk plays on his lips before pushing the doors open and disappearing.

Eyes narrowing in uncertainty, Vlad follows him...

* * *

...to his "station," where he is forced to ditch the trenchcoat, roll up his sleeves, and adorn an apron to stand in front of the sink.

Mumbling, he laments on his predicament.

"Well, at least I won't go home reeking of..."

A bunch of platters slams into the sink, covered in leftover scraps from last night which splatter onto the apron and Vlad's chin as they settle.

Without moving his head, he glances furtively to his left, eyes still narrowed. His fellow employee returns the same reaction, but with a warning.

"I'm watching you."

Pranav storms out of the kitchen and leaves him to his new profession.


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: I do not own Danny Phantom or any of its characters; all are the exclusive property of Butch Hartman. Oh, and I don't own Whole Foods either. Basically, I don't own any brand names hereon mentioned.**

* * *

Over the course of a few more days, he miraculously manages to acquire two other odd jobs loading supplies into trucks making lengthy trips and helping out in the very convenience store he discovered a while ago. He figures three jobs should cover his expenses for the time being.

Needless to say, starting his day out at seven in the morning doesn't sound like a glamorous affair to say the least, but circumstances being what they are, he figures it doesn't accomplish much to complain about the matter.

He also realizes, one day after setting his nutritious breakfast consisting of Cheerios and bland-as-can-be white bread and jam out on his counter, that his diet has also been altered drastically, along with the rest of his fitness routine. He sighs deeply, remembering fondly the days when he could obtain all his dietary needs at Whole Foods; not by necessity or concern of the actual nutritional value of the products, but by the virtue that he could _afford_ to shop at Whole Foods! And exercise was clearly not an option at this point; all the workout he needed before consisted of a quick stop to the Ghost Zone to search for some unfortunate ectoplasmic punching bag to provoke into battle.

With the most he can do now being a few laps around town (big chance of _that_ happening, lest someone recognize him and blow his cover; best to lay as low as possible), he slumps his shoulders and puts back the white bread into its bag. Maybe he can put off any unnecessary weight gain as long as possible.

Funny, he doesn't understand why he's still so concerned about his personal appearance, or who he's trying to look good for. Maybe himself; keeping fit seems to be ingrained into his being now, leftover from his days of being admired and idolized. Too bad those are over.

Ironically, his plan works; preparing for work at Samir's one morning, groggy and irritable, he hastily reaches for his belt before realizing his pants don't quite fit the way they did a few days ago. He looks down, sighing in disbelief when he finds he can pull them almost two inches away from his waist before they become tight enough on the other end.

Putting his head in his hands, he pushes it out of his mind and simply readjusts his belt a little tighter.

* * *

It goes without saying that his work day is nothing short of exhausting; a few hours scrubbing dishes in the morning in itself is no skin off his nose, but dealing with a suspicious coworker is enough to set him on edge. What sets Vlad off is that he doesn't even know if Pranav _is_ that suspicious in the first place; maybe he's just being paranoid. _No,_ he assures himself. _This man has blatantly stated he has it out for me._

Worrying won't get him anywhere, though. He has bigger things to fret about, and he ignores it, reasoning to himself that he hasn't given Pranav the opportunity to accuse him of anything. As long as he keeps that up, Pranav should drop the whole act eventually.

After a brisk walk halfway across town, he barely makes it in time to have a dusty, germy mop thrust into his hands at the convenience store. It takes a few minutes to adjust to the dizzying scent of Swiffer and ammonia, and he robotically goes about his way, unenthusiastically making the necessary back and forth motions across the store.

A long, insufferable period of time passes by before he is dismissed from the store and he makes his way out to the truck stop, the sky slowly melting to the warm hues of late afternoon. Along the way he can't help but think that maybe this is fate's idea of comeuppance. To be more specific, he had given up on the idea of fate long ago, but he thinks the universe is finally dealing him some retribution. Even more, _is_ this really such a horrible payback? To live like a _normal_ person? Or has his ego gotten the better of him?

Turning the idea over in his head, he hardly realizes when he has arrived at the building with trailer docks clearly visible in front. He comes to a stop and heads in.

A few minutes later he has shedded his coat again and has begun lifting crates into the back of the trailers. The other workers are conversing with each other, laughing, going about their own business.

He pushes a box into position, thinking how even though he's beaten and more than a little weary, he still holds a great deal more strength then the rest of these men combined. He smirks half-heartedly as he imagines the others' reactions to a man of his lanky stature lifting four crates at a time with little effort. The smirk doesn't last long, though, dropping as he puts his mind back to work.

The sky steadily turns to shades of pink, then violet, then finally black when he punches out and starts making his way home. Rubbing his tired eyes, he slinks along the sidewalk, head hanging. He can see store lights blinking out periodically all over the streets, and quickens his pace.

Suddenly, though, he senses another presence, and not a human one; he quickly recognizes the chilling sensation as his alarm to other ghostly entities in the vicinity. Not by any visible means, like those of another half-ghost hybrid that springs to mind, but by a sharp, extra-sensitive, jolting feeling that has been honed through his years of encounters with the other kind.

He whirls around immediately, instincts kicking in as he waits for his follower to appear. But just as quickly as the heightened feeling of awareness manifested, it dissipates silently, leaving him in the middle of the sidewalk.

He is quiet for a minute, listening for any other signs. Being met with a resounding silence, he slowly turns back around and wonders to himself if his nerves are finally catching up to him.

But he is positive that his ghost sense had not been triggered by any other events in the past days, and that it had to have gone off just now for a reason. He ponders over it for a few more minutes before the event disappears from his thoughts as he enters his building.

He doesn't turn around to see a flash of white hair fly off quickly into the night.

* * *

**A/N: I was originally going to keep the chapter going here, but I figured this leaves a much better cliffhanger. :) Especially since more people in this series have white hair than you think.**

***looks from above mysterious sunglasses* Yeah.**


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: I do not own Danny Phantom or any of its characters; all are the property of Butch Hartman and Nickelodeon.**

* * *

The next day is not so different; he makes all the runs, goes about his routine mechanically, as if on autopilot. He doesn't talk to anyone, make any effort to connect with others whatsoever. Although he doesn't notice it (or doesn't care), some of his fellow employees have started to notice something vaguely... _off,_ about this man. They, too, make little conversation with him.

He is back at the loading dock, slowly going about the same motions, sparing little thought towards the others around him. Although, a nagging thought in the back of his mind plays with the possibility that he may be subconciously slipping into a state of mental catatonia; that he'll be stuck in the same routine for the rest of his life, silent, lost...

_...alone._

The word which so used to strike fear into his heart, despite the hundreds that surrounded him every day, admiring him; but now, he realizes, he holds little contempt for the word as he did a while ago.

And that revelation is what shakes him visibly.

His head snaps up suddenly, and the others look at him strangely, some glancing around to see the invisible force that has rapidly grabbed his attention. When they cannot find it, they return to their former business, albeit not without giving him some puzzled looks first.

A second later, he composes himself and tries to return to work as well, but he barely gets a second to calm down before the same sharp feeling of heightened awareness enters his body like it did last night. While his vision remains temporarily sharpened, he looks around for the cause of the disturbance.

Filled with a sense of dread, he snaps his head around to look up towards the sky.

He stops, stupefied.

There, floating against the cloudless atmosphere, is the familiar black and white jumpsuit of the boy that he had tried so hard to forget ever since he had been run off the _face of the planet._

And here he is, still in the sky, glancing around as if looking for something.

Thinking quickly and not wanting to find out what it is (although he has a pretty good idea), he grabs his coat from one of the boxes and makes his way off the property.

He doesn't see the faint wisp of cold air escape from the boy's mouth.

* * *

Bursting through the doors of his building, he can feel a myriad of emotions bubbling up, resurfacing after he's fought so hard to keep them down. Panic, paranoia, hate...

His head is swirling, and before he knows it he's on his floor, making his way to his room.

He is greeted by a familiar senior on his way.

"Hey!" Mrs. Stein barks at him as he passes by. "Whatta you doin' here so early?"

He unintentionally lets out a growl, startling the old woman into silence.

He pays no mind to it, continuing on until he is back in his apartment. He glances around and is slightly glad to see that the few items he possesses should take no time at all to pack back up and get out.

Picking up the few clothes lying around and tossing them near the duffel bag, he turns around and finds he has left his morning's coffee on the counter, no doubt cold by now.

_Well,_ he figures. _There probably won't be much to drink on the way out of town._

Fatigued and against his better judgement, he slinks to the counter, places a hand on the mug, but doesn't pick it up.

He doesn't have much time to think before the chilling sensation racks his body again. He waits.

And waits.

A presence slowly phases it way into the room, silent but wary. He settles on the ground, returning to full visibility. Vlad does not see the earpiece or utility belt of some sort he is adorning.

Vlad is the first to break the silence.

"What are you doing here?"

"I don't want to fight you," Danny replies, putting up his hands in surrender. He figures he'll just have to be straightforward as well.

When Vlad doesn't respond, he straightens his posture and continues.

"I'm just here to... run damage control. Ask a few questions."

But it doesn't seem like he'll be the one asking much.

"And how did you find me?" Vlad asks, his back still to Danny. His tone is calm, collected, like the man Danny and the public know, but there's a hint of struggle to it. Danny vaguely notices his haircut, but cannot distinguish anything different about the man from behind his giant trenchcoat.

"Danielle's been hanging around Denver," the now sixteen-year old half-ghost replies, immediately mentally smacking himself for ratting the poor girl out. Still, he goes on, figuring Danielle is now safe at home with his group and Vlad can't do much about it. "She managed to spot you out and get back to us."

Vlad is silent. Danny wonders if he is even listening to a word he's saying, but goes on anyway.

"Look, Vlad, I know you've been through a rough spot. But you don't have to live like this; this isn't your only choice."

The elder ghost visibly tenses, surpressing a hiss at the boy's ignorance. Didn't have to live like this? What were his other options? Being forcibly turned in to the Guys In White, who no doubt were waiting for him back home to lock him up?

Danny senses this, pauses, and slowly keeps going.

"You can start over. Come back home, sort this out."

Vlad scoffs, stopping Danny's speech. The boy waits for his response.

"_Sort it out?_" he quietly snaps. "Sort what out? That I'm a global pariah? That I'm some grand prize for the government to get their hands on?"

Danny is stunned, but manages to retort with, "Look, we can figure this all out when we-"

"We _nothing,_" Vlad cuts him off, turning slightly to face him but still keeping most of his face obscured. He can feel his blood start to boil over and his grip on the coffee mug tighten as he keeps speaking. "How _dare_ you come into my home and patronize me after all you've done?"

Danny starts to feel his own temper rise. Soon his own feelings of resentment towards this self-centered man start to resurface as well.

"Patronize? I'm trying to help you!..."

_"Help?" _Vlad roars, turning to face him fully. Danny does a double-take at the man's appearance, far different from the last time he's seen him.

"Don't come in and preach to me about the pile of _filth_ my life has become and then offer your hand for help! As if you can look down on me as some charity case for your pity! I don't need your _help._ I'm perfectly capable of surviving by my own means, you condescending little _twit."_

Danny is soon furious as well, and despite his mission to show up and keep the dispute as civil as possible, soon gives in to his own anger and frustration.

"And you think _you're_ so high and mighty? You're the one sitting in this hellhole of a town becuase of your own stupid decisions, and you still find a way to turn it around and blame everyone _else!"_

Vlad stares the boy down, forcing himself to stop and think clearly. But it proves futile.

_"...Get out of my house,"_ he growls slowly and quietly, a sense of furious tension clearly evident.

Danny's eyes widen, but he can't stop himself before stupidly spewing out, "Vlad, wait-"

**_"GET OUT OF MY HOUSE!"_** the elder roars, his black transformation rings racing across his body at record speeds Danny has never seen before, the last straw on the camel's back falling into place with little regard as to who might possibly have heard it.

Immediately a blast of pink energy bursts from the palm of his hand, sending a stunned Danny blasting through his wall, albeit intangibly with no damage to the building.

Danny catches himself in midair, shaking off the surprise attack when he notices Vlad speeding towards him, fists blazing with ectoplasm.

The younger hybrid immediately puts up a green sheild of his own, but that proves ineffective when Vlad smashes him along with it into the roof of the building opposite his own.

There is a sickening crash of bones and cement, and as the dust clears, Danny slowly opens his eyes to find his neck in the grasp of Vlad's right hand, still glowing with energy.

Smirking joylessly, the latter tightens his grip, barely allowing Danny to choke out in pain.

"Well," he sputters. "This certainly wasn't what I had in mind."

Vlad barely has time to furrow his brow as the youngster teleports into a green flash of light, leaving his hand empty against the side of the exit that leads to the roof of the building.

Whirling around, Vlad sees his opponent floating unsurely in the air above him, giving him an unreadable look before flying off in the other direction.

Vlad's first instinct is to follow and finish the nuisance off for good, or at least give him a good enough beat down he won't easily forget. But he thinks better of it and stays at the top of the building, looking after the spot where Danny sped off from.

His first thought is that he must immediately gather his belongings and high-tail it out of town, leaving no trace behind, lest the ghost boy rat out his last hiding place. Slowly, though, he decides against it. Maybe, just maybe, being brought in would end this pointless game of cat and mouse, this day-to-day routine of not knowing what was to come.

He is staying; maybe out of surrender, or maybe just to see if the boy is stupid enough to show back up alone.

No; he can't be. ...Could he?

...He'd have to wait to find out.


End file.
